Slip of the Tongue
by iolre
Summary: Sherlock calls Lestrade Gregory when they're together. It's his way of separating the Work and his relationship, to put things in boxes when order is necessary.


I opened a prompt blog, on tumblr, for minor pairs. It's minorsherlockprompts dot tumblr dot com. You can basically send prompts for anything other than Johnlock or Mystrade. I've mostly been posting these on my AO3 account, but I'm going to transfer some of the longer ones over here.

Prompt: Sherlock calls Lestrade Gregory when they're together. It's his way of separating the Work and his relationship, to put things in boxes when order is necessary.

* * *

"Gregory, look at the nails." Sherlock gestured to the hand of the dead woman lying in front of them, examining the cuticles intently. "There's formaldehyde. She's obviously been dead, quite well preserved. That would explain the lack of bleeding, despite the rather enthusiastic vivisection…" he trailed off uncertainly as he looked up, aware that anyone within earshot was staring. While that wasn't particularly unusual, none of them were sneering and some had mouths hanging open.

John's eyes had widened and his mouth was hanging open, and Lestrade had gone a bit pink, the blush rising to his ears as it always did. Sherlock rewound what he had said, and paused. "Oh," he murmured, a faint exhalation. He was always polite, separating the Work and his relationship, and although he enjoyed calling his partner Gregory in a polite setting, their personal one, he had never slipped up and done so outside of Lestrade's flat. And now he had slipped up in front of the entire task force.

"Gregory?" Sally interrupted. "Why did the freak just call you Gregory?" Anderson stood next to her, eyebrows raised, his arms crossed over his chest. John's mouth shut and he tensed as if ready to punch the next person that spoke. Or shoot them. Sherlock absentmindedly wondered if John had brought his gun. He rather hoped not, because part of him was worried that Lestrade would borrow it to shoot himself with.

"Detective Inspector, you're looking at a botched dissection of a medical school cadaver, not a murder." Sherlock straightened up, pulling his gloves off and tossing them into the nearest rubbish bin. "A crime, yes, but not one I'm interested in. Text me if anything interesting comes up."

"Oh, I bet he will," Anderson sniggered. Sherlock turned, his eyes narrowing, making himself as menacing as possible. It worked, and rather quickly, for Anderson dropped his gaze and muttered something underneath his breath.

"Alright, you lot, get to work," Lestrade snapped. "Sherlock, any leads as to where it came from?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Check with the local schools. Come on, John, let's go home." He turned on his heel and strode off, the military doctor obediently following.

They made it to the taxi in silence, although Sherlock could feel the desire to ask practically emanating off the shorter man. "So," John coughed, shifting in his seat. "Gregory?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly. "How odd can it be? I call you John. Isn't that what friends are supposed to do? Use first names?"

"Is that what you two are, then?" John asked innocently. "Just friends?

"Yes, of course." Sherlock looked out the window, pleased to see that they were nearly to their flat. He left John to pay, darting upstairs and grabbing his violin before sinking down into the armchair. Why had he slipped up? Nothing out of the ordinary had happened today that he was aware of, and he had always managed to be professional before.

True, he had spent last night in Gregory's flat, curled up against him, watched him leave for work, but it was not the first occurrence. He started playing his violin, soft, playful notes, and ignored John and the mug of tea he placed in front of him. Tea he could have later. This puzzle needed to be sorted now.

Oh. As he distracted himself, removed himself from the idea, he realized what it was. It was their year anniversary, or something similar. Some arbitrary amount of human time that apparently partners were supposed to find romantic and worthy of note. Although that in itself (especially since Sherlock wasn't paying attention to the time passing) didn't explain the slip.

"It's familiarity," John said, breaking into Sherlock's thoughts.

"What?" Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes narrowed.

"How long has it been?" The military doctor's tone was conversational, and he relaxed into his armchair, tea next to him and laptop on his lap. "A year or thereabouts, I'd guess."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, neither an acceptance nor a denial. "I take it you call him Gregory in private?" John nodded, mostly to himself. "That's going to start bleeding over into your work relationship, too."

"There must be a way to stop it," Sherlock muttered, fingers tapping restlessly on the bridge of the violin.

John laughed. "You should enjoy it, Sherlock. Go take him to a nice dinner or something."

Sherlock tilted his head, eyes sly. "Is that what you're going to do with my brother, hmm?"

"I - pardon?" John stuttered.

"I know you've been dating Mycroft. Nearly six months now, I would estimate, based on the various pieces of new clothing you have assembled. He does enjoy dressing his boyfriends. Tell-tale sign."

John closed the laptop a little too firmly and drained his tea a little too quickly, grimacing as it burned. "Bit not good, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him, mostly because he didn't know what to say. It wasn't like John had gone out of his way to keep that a secret. Had he? Irrelevant, regardless. His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out and looked at it.

'Can I come over? GL'  
'Yes. I want to see you. SH'

When Sherlock looked up, John was watching him with an odd expression on his face. "I'm going to my room," John said. Sherlock shrugged dismissively and grabbed his violin, strumming it in a rather pleasant manner. "Have fun," he added, and Sherlock frowned at the tone, laden with innuendo as it was.

"You're aware we will likely engage in sexual intercourse, correct?" he inquired, perplexed. John's face changed from amused to horrified. "Which, while some would term it fun, is also messy, and involves the-"

"I'm going now." John plugged his ears and stomped up the stairs.

"How childish," Sherlock muttered, plucking a quiet arpeggio on the violin.

"Hello, love." Greg smiled as he walked in, gently tugging the violin out of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock watched him, careful, examining his mood. Was he angry? Was the misstep a big one, a critical one?

"You're not angry," Sherlock observed, standing and going into the kitchen to make tea. He was even polite and took the mug John had made him, dumping it into the sink since it had long cooled. Didn't that technically count as cleaning? Something like that.

"Why would I be angry?" Greg asked, amused and puzzled.

"I inadvertently revealed our relationship to your entire team," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, yeah," Greg said with a shrug. "And?"

"I thought your intention was to keep it a secret." Sherlock came out of the kitchen bearing mugs and handed one to his partner, a slight frown on his face.

"Because it would cause a bloody great riot to find out that I was sleeping with the outsider we bring in to consult on cases," Greg agreed with a nod, sipping the tea and smiling when he discovered it was exactly the way he liked it.

Sherlock waited, and then realized Greg wasn't saying anything else. "Well…"

"Yeah?" Greg took another drink of the tea, and then sat down in Sherlock's armchair and patted his legs. Sherlock took a furtive look around, ensuring that doors were locked and windows were closed and John was indeed securely stowed away in his bedroom before setting down his mug and straddling Greg's lap. He curled up against him, head on his shoulders, back curled, comforted by the DI's arms around him and the warm body pressed against his. "I'm not mad, love," he murmured to Sherlock.

"John says it is familiarity," Sherlock admitted. "I don't - I want to keep them separated. In boxes."

"That's not always possible." Greg was running his fingertips up and down the long curvature of Sherlock's spine, reassuring, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's head.

"I like calling you Gregory," Sherlock said quietly.

"I know, love." Greg held him closer, and Sherlock relaxed against him. No one else called him Gregory, not even his mother. It was Sherlock's term, and Sherlock's term alone. It was a way that, no matter what was going on, he could show he cared. And Sherlock considered that precious, as simplistic as it sounded. It was what kept them tethered together, even in the darkest times.

"John's sleeping with my brother," Sherlock muttered petulantly, changing the topic.

Greg let out a choked laugh. "What?"

"They engage in sexual intercourse by way of going out to fancy dinners, and then come back here to -"

"Yes, Sherlock, I know what that means," Greg cut him off hastily. He paused, carding a hand into Sherlock's hair. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"He's got a date tonight."

"Ah." Greg's exhale was obvious against Sherlock's body, as pressed together as they were.

"And they're going to come back here."

"Is this your way of asking if you can come over tonight?"

"Maybe...Gregory."

"Well, alright, then." Greg nudged him, and there were faint splotches of colour on his cheeks. He did so enjoy being called Gregory, after all.

Sherlock took him by the wrist and quickly led him out of 221B.


End file.
